


Pumpkin Head

by ghostofshe



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Evil Sole Survivor, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofshe/pseuds/ghostofshe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hancock and Fahrenheit investigate rumors of an unknown killer hunting in the ruins outside Goodneighbor. Their investigation brings them face-to-face with something they never could have anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chatter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fallout kink meme. (Title is from the song "Hell Night" by the Misfits because I'm bad at coming up with titles)

\--

The rumors start like any other nonsense spread by wasteland junkies. Mutterings of fabricated sights and sounds. Some kind of demon lives in the ruins, apparently. They say it's a monster that walks in the shadows at night, nobody ever sees it coming, it leaves nothing but blood and fire in its wake.

Hancock nods at the story when Fahrenheit tells it to him, laughs along with her about the wild shit that people come up with. He takes a puff of jet and daydreams about the Silver Shroud fighting shadow monsters in the old world dust of the city, then later forgets how such an idea ever came to his mind in the first place.

–

The rumors spread like any other tall-tale picked up by bored traders. Whispered anecdotes over the campfire, a friend of a friend who saw or heard something that incites the briefest glimmer of interest. Some kind of demon hunts in the ruins, apparently. They say it's a vengeful spirit, laughing and screaming under the shade of the old-world towers, leaves nothing behind but bones and fear.

Hancock shakes his head at the story when Whitechapel Charlie passes it along, asks him what on earth he was giving to the poor soul who told it to him. Though, as he watches the stage afterwards, a small chill creeps inside his chest. He helps himself to some jet and a beer, trying to lose himself in the somber tune and the sparkle of Magnolia’s dress beneath the dim lights. For good measure he pops a mentat into his mouth, chasing it with the remainder of his watery beer. He sets the empty bottle down and tosses a handful crumpled pre-war bills onto the counter.

“Whiskey,” he says to Charlie, “A round for everyone, if you don't mind.”

A few songs and rounds of drinks later, he feels at ease once again, though still waits around until Fahrenheit comes calling on Magnolia and agrees to walk him home. Too drunk, he tells her, that's all.

–

The rumors take hold, more of an urban legend, a warning passed between wastelanders. Suspicion becomes superstition, and people clean their guns while bickering at one another. _“What do you mean there's no more ten mil ammunition?” “Where the hell are the caravans?” “They say even raiders won’t pass through there.”“Why hasn’t anyone done anything?”_

_“Have you heard about those drifters? What happened to them--”_

When these things reach Hancock's ears, he wrings his hands together, grinds the remaining powder from a mentat between his teeth. This time, neither he nor Fahrenheit are laughing as the pale-faced man standing in his office struggles through the retelling of events, stuttering and shaking his head.

Hancock's ears are ringing, he looks at Fahrenheit. She clears her throat, asks him to describe the location.

The man starts to speak, stops and puts his hand over his mouth, swallowing hard before he continues. “N-north of here,” he manages.“There was... I can't...” He looks like he might be sick.

“Could you point it out on a map?” Asks Fahrenheit. The man nods meekly.

When the circle's drawn on the map, Hancock sends the man away with a fistful of caps and a syringe of med-x. He squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, “Try and relax, alright? Everything’s gonna be fine.” The man is out the door before Hancock finishes the sentence.

Fahrenheit flashes him a lopsided grin when he turns around. “So, ready to kill a demon?”


	2. Hunt

The legend gets inside his head. Different from the usual tall-tales spread across the wastes. Hancock knows he's not going into a fight with a real demon, but something about the whispers and the superstitions make him feel wary, uncertain of what to expect. He tolerates one of the townsfolk chanting at him, hands clasped together, something about protection from evil. Can't hurt their chances, he figures.

Fahrenheit shoos the chanter away. “Got the only protection I need,” she says, hauling her minigun up to illustrate her point. “Nothing's a threat once you put enough holes in it.”

He lets her lead the way as they depart. Every step further they venture from Goodneighbor has him looking over his shoulder a little more frequently. Should've sent word, he thinks, brought an extra gun or two along just to be safe. Fahrenheit would've ran them off anyway, he supposes, probably would've twisted his arm for insulting her pride.

They walk for over an hour, winding between the tall buildings as the sun disappears behind a ceiling of gray clouds, large and heavy with imminent rain.

“Nice. Real nice,” Hancock mutters, glaring at the sky. Fahrenheit glances up as well, but doesn’t comment.

Strangely, as they continue through the ruins, they encounter no super mutants, no raiders. A few mongrols snarl at them from afar before retreating back down the crumbling street, and a single bloodbug hovers closer and closer to them until Hancock draws his shotgun. The buckshot rips the insect to shreds, blood and fragments of wing painting the wet cement before the rain washes it all into the gutter. As they approach the corner further up the street, Hancock looks back and sees the mongrels licking at the gutter puddle of bug blood.

They pass a cobbled-together wooden wall, spiked poles and raider totems out front, but it's suspiciously quiet, not even the crackle of a fire to provide evidence of life within. Neither of them says anything, unease settling over their heads as they walk on.

A damp breeze cuts at them through their clothes, gradually picking up until Fahrenheit's rust-colored hair whips against the bare side of her skull. Hancock presses a hand atop his head to keep his hat from blowing away, the other one tucked in close to his chest as he shivers. They continue in silence, Fahrenheit walking upright with her minigun aimed straight ahead, the first small droplets of rain plinking off of her armor and Hancock hunching against the wind, still holding his hat.

He nearly walks into Fahrenheit's back before he notices her raise a hand. She nods to their right, directing Hancock's gaze to the ruddy lines painted on the crumbling brick wall. Raindrops cause the lines to bleed, little rivulets of crimson snaking their way to the ground. It looks like the roman numeral for three. Fahrenheit continues forward, more slowly, cautiously. She kicks a pipe rifle out of her path, takes a step, then kicks a ten millimeter with her other foot. The cement all around them is littered with weapons. Various ammo clips, shells, and magazines lie nearby, as though their original owners had given up on reloading and simply thrown their guns to the ground.

“Looks like we're in the right place,” says Fahrenheit. Further down the street there’s a lamp post standing at the entrance to an alleyway, the light actually intact and working, calling a suspicious amount of attention to itself. Beneath the glow of the light rests a mostly-intact shoe.

“Right place to get ambushed,” he says, eyeing the broken windows overhead, rain pelting his face as he pops a mentat into his mouth.

The chems kick in with a slight rush and a perceived brightening of the dim, stormy surroundings, and Hancock suddenly feels acutely aware of the dark, paneless windows overhead, staring down at them from the ruined towers. So many vantage points, any of them a perfect place to settle in and wait for some unlucky fool to wander into the crosshairs, perhaps lured by a light peering through the evening shadows of the ruins. He looks to the lamp post again, at what he can now clearly see is a bear trap, snapped shut and sitting halfway in a small puddle beside the discarded shoe.

“We’d better find some cover,” he says, gripping his gun in its holster, “Just to be safe.”

“Will you relax?” Fahrenheit’s hair is plastered against the side of her head now, her metal chest plate glistens from the water. “If-”

Before she can finish, an inhuman shriek pierces the air, nearly deafening even over the howl of the storm. The sound is of a creature suffering its final moments, could just as easily be from a yao guai as a human. It seems to go on forever.

Fahrenheit closes her mouth, jaw set firm, every muscle in her body tensing in anticipation. Hancock draws his gun as the sound finally dies down, ready to fire at the first sign of movement through the dim veil of rain.

Just as he takes another step forward, Fahrenheit spins and shoves him back with her shoulder, sending them both to the ground. A missile screams over their heads and explodes a few yards away, showering them with debris. Before he can register anything besides the searing heat above him and the cold damp ground beneath him, her hand is on the back of his coat, dragging him back up and practically throwing him into cover behind the remnants of an old truck.

“Stay down!” she hollers. Another missile explodes, ahead of them this time, and he crouches with his hands over his head. He can hear her minigun spinning up before his world is overtaken by gunfire. A missile rocks the truck he's hiding behind and he tries to scramble away too late as the truck violently explodes. Hancock feels the force of the shockwave, then the pavement, then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discontinued


End file.
